


Last Forever

by The_ILoveYou_Game



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cheating, Guilt, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Tension, Temptation, Understanding, season 3??, what season 3????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_ILoveYou_Game/pseuds/The_ILoveYou_Game
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's been dating Greg for almost a year and a half when Sherlock comes back to London. John loves Greg, he does...but Sherlock's alive and John's got a second chance.</p><p>Sherlock will take what he can get, even if he can't have all of John, he'll take anything: a sliver, a taste, a hit. Just this once, he swears, just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oops my hand slipped

John tastes like orange chicken and beer and _home_ and Sherlock’s mind is imploding at the sensory information. He grabs at the strong arms that are gripping the back of the sofa, caging Sherlock in. He doesn’t know if it’s to pull the blond closer or push him off. He should stop this right now, and he’s about to, when he feels John’s tongue brush against his. He settles his hands on John’s waist and pulls the man so he’s straddling him because he needs him closer _now._

Sherlock’s been back for _months_ and this is all he’s wanted, John warm and solid in his lap, pliant against his lips. Gods, why did he ever wait so long to do this? John’s moaning into his mouth and Sherlock’s mind is screaming at him: _Lestrade_. Lestrade is why he didn’t grab John the moment he saw him and push him against the door of their flat and let him know just how sorry he was for everything. Lestrade is the reason Sherlock returned to Baker Street alone, without his blogger in tow.

The tension between the two of them since Sherlock’s return was choking him and over their tired dinner in the den of two-two-one B Sherlock could feel a new dynamic shifting beneath the surface. He couldn’t pick a name for it. If he’d been anyone else he’d pick awkwardness, nerves, or the angst of unrequited love. But he’s not anyone else and all Sherlock knows is that he simultaneously wants to fuck the man in front of him senseless and run away as though nothing has changed: pretend that his best friend, his _soulmate_ if one is inclined to use those kinds of titles, is dating Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“ _John_.” It’s painful to pull his mouth away. “John, we _can’t_.”

John’s panting against the detective’s throat, wet puffs of air against the pale column of skin. John’s denim-clad legs squeezing the slim hips and he’s mortified at his actions. More than embarrassment is a churning shame. He wished he’d at least had a couple more beers so he could blame it on the alcohol. There’s no way he’ll be able to explain why he’s currently straddling and snogging Sherlock Holmes to his ( _loyal, kind, warm_ ) boyfriend of nearly two years. Greg’s more likely to laugh him out of the building for trying to seduce the cold detective then lash out for his infidelity, but that doesn’t change that it’s wrong though. The blush taking over his face and chest is not from arousal.

Sherlock feels the small man tense in his lap. He’s rigid beneath his hands but it’s not regret for his actions it’s….embarrassment?  What does he have to be embarrassed about? He’s done what others have failed to do. Sherlock Holmes is undoubtedly, undeniably in _love_ with John Watson.

John’s pushing himself off the thin man muttering apologies and Sherlock’s body feels too cold without him. The minute his feet reach the ground John practically throws himself back and away and begins furious pacing, fist pushed against his lips.

 “God I cannot- _Jesus_ what have I _done_ …” He stops and spins on his heel. Sherlock hasn’t moved but his eyes are tracking the nervous movements. John’s face is guilt-ridden “God Sherlock I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me”. He’s fucked it all up.

Sherlock’s dissecting him, eyes tracing his nervous twitching. What does John feel guilty about? Is it for jumping Sherlock, although the advance was very welcome? Or is it for the betrayal of his partner who sits at home, tired from a day at work, waiting for John to come home and fall into bed? The latter sends a fissure of sharp pain up his spine that spreads to a dull ache in his lungs. He tries not to dwell on _that_ particular image.

He’s seen them together and they’re a good match. They’re not perfect, no, Lestrade will never satiate John’s addiction to danger and John will never be as stable as Lestrade craves but theirs is the kind of easy chemistry that overcomes that. What has Sherlock done to them? Lestrade’s not a stranger to unfaithful partners, and John knows that. He’ll be eaten alive by his own transgressions trying to repair things with Lestrade if Sherlock let’s this go any further. John’s so caring and kind…but so is the D.I. and he’s likely to forgive the soldier eventually. They’ll survive this and Sherlock understands there is no happy ending for him, but he’ll take what he can get. He’ll take John, even if it’s only a taste, even if he has to give him back to the D.I. at the end. He’ll always have John by his side, Sherlock is sure, even if it’s nothing more than a friend.

They’re the actions of a selfish man but Sherlock’s never pretended to be anything else. Lestrade and John will move past this and Sherlock would get the hit of a lifetime. _Perfect._ Decision made, he pulls himself off the sofa and to his full height. Stalking toward the fidgeting doctor, he rumbles a low, “John”, stopping the man’s nervous movements.

Silently, John stares up at the advancing detective; his stormy eyes are heated and the pupils are blown wide, John lets out a stuttering breath. His heart’s beating so fast he thinks it’s going to give out when Sherlock places his large hands on John’s hips, stilling him. They’re faces are so close they’re sharing the same humid air.

“Stop, John.” _Stop panicking, stop overthinking this, stop breaking my heart._ He yanks the blond’s body against his own, crushing him against his chest. Their lips are smashed together and he cuts himself on John’s teeth. He manipulates the angle until it’s a proper kiss and their mouths are sealed together again, tongues colliding and teeth biting. As John sucks roughly on the detective’s plush lower lip, Sherlock takes the opportunity to slip cold hands underneath the knitted material of John’s jumper. The blogger shivers as he feels the electricity of expert fingers on his skin.

 _“-off._ Take this _off.”_ The words are inaudible, spoken against John’s lips and chin but he gets the idea from the impatient tugging on his clothes. They break apart a few centimeters, far enough for Sherlock to rip off the jumper and vest in one swoop. The newly exposed flesh is mouthwatering and Sherlock takes seconds to catalogue it before he attaches himself to John’s neck.

A knee slips between John’s knee and presses torturously against the erection growing in his jeans. He gasps obscenely and throws his head back, stars smattering his vision when Sherlock grinds against his crotch, frotting like a teenager. John’s grabbing at his silk shirt, trying to pull at buttons and he’s gotten about half way down when he feels pulling at his belt buckle and a rush of cold air hitting his hips.

Sherlock is biting along the doctor’s strong collarbone, “No, Sherlock- no- hhn….no marks” John’s senses are fleeting but he might as well make some attempt to keep what’s going on tonight a secret from his boyfriend.

Sherlock releases the battered skin with a sneer a mumbled “Of course” exhaled into the heated air between them. There’s a split second John is worried the moment is ruined but then Sherlock presses the palm of his hand teasingly against the bulge in John’s pants, pushing his trousers down further as he does, and John is relieved he still wants to do this(and god isn’t that _horrible_?). If the panting is anything to go by, John’s wound up and not far from orgasm which is perfect because it’s been years since the last time Sherlock’s been touched and being so close to the blond again has only made him ache for release.

Maybe some other time they can take this slow and Sherlock can get to know every crevice and fold of John’s body; memorize all the beautifully tragic sounds he can pull from the doctor’s throat. There’s too much desperation tonight, a quick release is what they need to break the last of the tension since Sherlock’s return, but some day Sherlock’s going to show John that he’s all he’ll ever need, make those pretty pink lips beg for him. God what it would feel like to be inside of John-

 _“Sherlock_ …let’s- _ah_ \- move this to the bedroom” John can barely breathe over the reality of what’s happening, “- _please_.”

It breaks Sherlock from his daydream; John isn’t his to have Later’s and Some Day’s with. ..just tonight, just right now, and he better not waste it. Nodding, he grabs at John’s hand and takes off towards his bedroom, John hobbling quickly behind him, trousers still trapped around his thighs.

When they reach Sherlock’s bedroom, they separate for the thirty seconds it takes to shed the rest of their clothes, stripped down to their pants, John pushes the detective towards the bed. Giving a shove to his right shoulder, John crawls over Sherlock on all fours, their bodies just barely brushing. He’s leaving a gorgeous trail of nips and bruises along Sherlock’s pale chest when the taller man suddenly bucks and switches their positions. John’s disorientated for a moment before he realizes that he’s spread eagle on the mattress, a mischievous detective licking his way down John’s torso.

The throbbing between his legs is becoming insistent and when he tries to get some friction against Sherlock’s hips, the brunet pushes his hips down and chuckles. The smug bastard prowls back up towards John’s face for a breathtaking snog. Fingers hooked in the waistband of John’s modest briefs, Sherlock breaks away to look his best friend in the eye.

His question is clear, even if it’s not vocalized: _Is this okay?_ Because there is no going back from this, not really. This will undeniably change everything, could ruin everything more than they’ve ruined it already.

John’s response is unmistakable: _Oh god, yes._ Even though it’s anything but okay.

There’s a short, sweet kiss and a slight nod and Sherlock’s gone, nuzzling John’s prick through the rough fabric. He mouths along the bulge and he can barely taste the musk through the damp cloth but moves to John’s hip, leaving hard sucking kisses as he works the pants down and off John’s body.

Those cupid bow lips are sucking a wicked path up John’s thighs and he lets out a pained moan when Sherlock starts to nip at the sensitive skin inside. Braving a look down at the dark haired man, John is undone by the sight of the detective’s tongue leaving wet trails everywhere except for where he really wants it. The git knows what he’s doing to the smaller man when he leaves a sucking kiss to the base of his flushed erection. The ministrations are teasing and fleeting and overwhelming. He throws his head back to the pillow with a frustrated thud and considers physical violence when he hears a smug chuckle coming from between his legs.

“Sherlock Holmes I swear to- _Oh_!” The threat turns into a debauched moan when the brunet takes the head of John’s penis into his mouth. Applying light suction to the swollen glands, he tongues at the slit. The bitter tang explodes across his tongue and Sherlock could swear that sucking off John Watson is all he wants to do for the rest of his life. Sherlock trails the dry pad of a finger along John’s perineum and a smug smile breaks across his face when his blogger lets out a high keening sound, he’s sure Lestrade doesn’t pull sounds like that from the man.

He works at the cock in front of him, lithe fingers wrapped around the base while his tongue does cruel things to the delicate frenulum beneath the glossy head. John’s balls are pulled up tight, heavy with semen, and his muscles are twitching erratically. It doesn’t take a consulting detective to know he’s about to come. When he feels himself at the brink, John tries to warn the man, pushing blindly at his shoulder and crying out obscenities but Sherlock is unrelenting and when he massages the sensitive skin around John’s entrance his vision whites out.

Coming back from his high, occasional stars still floating in his peripherals, John can feel Sherlock rutting and rubbing against his hip. He’s almost sorry he can’t touch and help but his muscles are still jelly, shaking and recovering from what might have been one of the best orgasms of his life. There's a demanding kiss and John can taste himself on Sherlock tongue and Christ if that isn't the hottest fucking thing.

Watching John blissed out and wanton and used on his mattress beneath him has Sherlock so on edge that a few firm thrusts against his pliant body is enough for him to reach release, spilling semen all over John’s hip and stomach. He knows he’ll pay for it later when John chews him out for it, but for now John just look so perfect covered in Sherlock’s spunk.

There are no more words between them for the evening. John knows he’ll be have until early morning to return to Greg’s flat ( _Greg’s and his_ _flat_ , he struggles to remind himself) and Sherlock doesn’t want to shatter the fragile thing connecting them. Sherlock pulls John to him, spooning the smaller man, away from the cooling mess they’ve left on the duvet and as the doctor begins to drift sated and sticky and conflicted Sherlock can’t stop himself from leaving a dark, filthy bruise on the man’s shoulder. John grunts a bit but hardly stirs. Anyone who sees it will know it for what it is, a clear mark of possession and sex and maybe it’s childish and spiteful but the next time John looks in the mirror, the next time he lets Gregory Lestrade undress him, he wants him to see that mark and remember that he’ll never feel the same with anyone else that he does with Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is kind of rushed and crazy but I just wanted to post it before I left for my night shift
> 
> editing might be done later, expect the notes to be added

“You look like shit. What the hell did his majesty do to you?” Greg’s tone is so light but John freezes, dropping his keys on the coffee table and pauses. He fears for a moment that Greg can see right through him, see everything he’s done in the last eight hours written on his face. He doesn’t straighten up until he hears Greg laughing, “It’s like he never left, you know? Christ I still don’t know what to think.”

John just nods and hangs up his coat. He didn’t take a shower at Baker Street, he thought it would look too suspicious and once he’d slept a couple of hours the full weight of the situation slammed into him.  He’d slept with his best friend, the man who betrayed his trust, regularly insults his intelligence, puts him in dangerous situations, and experiments on him for fun. There was a slight crush before the  whole Moriarty debacle, John will be honest. It was small and constantly beating in the back of his mind but a relationship with him…it wouldn’t work.  They complement each other  perfectly but John’s always needed more.

“Seriously, you’re a mess. Go take a shower.” Greg plants a warm kiss on John’s forehead that makes his chest ache.  His smile makes John weak because it’s so big and earnest and lovely and he could cry for the cruelty of it. John smiles back in that moment.

“Only if you’re joining me.”

“As tempting as that offer is…” Lestrade rests his hands on John’s hips, not demanding, just feeling the solid body of the blond. He rests his forehead against John’s and looks in those blue eyes like they’re oceans and he hasn’t had a drink in days. His smile is addictive and John hopes he sees it for the rest of his life. “…and it is tempting, doctor Watson, I have to finish up these emails from this past case.  All that time away and Holmes has yet to gather the patience for paperwork.”

The mention of Sherlock makes his insides twist painfully. He shivers a bit in Greg’s embrace and he hopes to play it off as anticipation instead of guilt. He gives a petulant grumble

He gives him a chaste, but heartfelt, kiss before turning towards the bedroom. He can hear Greg hit the kettle on to boil and the even clicking of computer keys as he strips in their shared room. He must be free from the office for the day because he’s making tea and not a monster pot coffee. John feels warm and a smile pulls on his face as he peels his socks off because it’s so rare for the two of them to have a day off together. Really it’s just rare for Greg to have a day off at all and he so badly needs it. Throwing his vest and shirt in the general direction of the dirty clothes basket, he allows himself to anticipate the promised quality time he’ll get to spend with his very foxy boyfriend.

When he kicks off his trousers and walks into the ensuite bathroom he’s hit with a heavy dose of shame because his shorts are sticking to his body in the most disgusting of ways. There’s the evidence of his infidelity right there on his skin. Sherlock is rubbed into his pores and the self-loathing might just swallow him whole. John throws the pants towards the garbage before clambering into the shower. He turns the taps on to a punishing temperature. He scrubs every square inch of his body, from the soles of the feet that walked him into Sherlock’s bedroom to behind his ears where he can still feel the detective’s lips licking, sucking, whispering…

He grabs Greg’s body wash, a rich minty scent that reminds him of the man he loves in the other room. It foams between his calloused fingers and he needs everything his mind has come to associate with that scent. The smell of home and safety, the things Sherlock could never offer him.

He loves Sherlock, so much, and so carelessly that he would let the man break his heart in a moment. It’s a blind trust that surprises him because he’s never been open with anyone, never even felt the desire to be, but he’d let Sherlock cut him apart over and over and over again if that’s what he wanted. It’s a very real possibility if he chose to have an affair with Sherlock Holmes. He’s already betrayed his trust and shattered his world in the most public way possible and still here he is scrubbing the man’s dried semen off his thighs.

He wants to run to the other room and confess and apologize and hold onto Greg until he understands what’s happening but he’s scared. He’s never been this afraid, not in his entire life, and he invaded Afghanistan. Sherlock was the most important person in his life at one point, and he thought he’d lost him because of his own flaws and weakness. Now Greg is his entire world and if losing Sherlock wounded him, losing Greg would kill him.

To lose someone by death is painful but everyone dies, eventually. It’s one of the few guarantees we get in life. The pain of losing his best friend was horrid, John cannot deny, but if Greg was to leave him…well that’s entirely different. To lose someone in life is a lasting ache because he’d have to wake up every day and know that they’re out there, somewhere, living, smiling, and dreaming without him. Death is unavoidable, John can begrudge mortality only so much.

He shakes his head, like he can shake the thoughts right out of it. When he hears the sharp snap of the bedroom door closing, he rinses off, his skin still smelling like the greying Detective Inspector. Wrapping himself in a towel and heading into the bedroom, he sees Greg undressing, unbuttoning the last of his shirt. John saunters over and pulls on the tie hanging around the neck, bringing those lips into a sweet kiss. Greg moans into the kiss and unfolds the towel the reveal the short body in front of him.

John smiles like a teenager, sick in love as he pushes the rest of Greg’s clothing off. The warm olive skin underneath his hands are all too real suddenly.

He pulls the greying man onto the bed, falling until they’re lying side by side, the fronts of their bodies touching softly  as Greg frames John’s face with his hands kissing him. John lets Greg lead the kiss, not wanting to take more than he deserves. He’ll take whatever the older man is willing to give and he’ll be grateful for it.  Slowly, the kiss is deepened and Greg tilts their heads to lick his way into the warmth of John’s mouth.  It’s maddeningly tender and it’s ripping John’s heart to shreds, he’s suddenly touch starved and he’s leaving crescent moon shaped indents in Greg’s skin with his desperate grip. When the yarder runs a rough hand so fondly through the still damp locks of dishwater blond hair John whimpers into his mouth.

It’s a pitiful sound that has Greg tearing his lips away.  “Hey..” He’s looking, concerned, into John’s face. John doesn’t remember closing his eyes but he suddenly realizing the fervor with which he’s squeezing them shut. He’s afraid Greg knows, somehow, and he’ll see it in his face. He can’t respond, too afraid of what will come out. “John, are you okay?”

The confusion in his voice quells john’s fears and he just nods in what he’s sure is a slightly manic manner before pulling Greg by his shoulders so he’s on top. His weight is reassuring. Greg props himself on one elbow to keep from crushing his partner before leaning in for a filthy kiss that’s really just tongues and teeth clashing violently. He breaks off when John trails a hand down to squeeze Greg’s erection and the groan that rips from his throat is obscene.

“Greg.” John musters all his concentration to utter the name in his most serious tone, the tone that sent underlings to battle and medics to action. It’s Captain Watson beneath Lestrade in that moment and he tries to pull his mind off his throbbing erection to focus on the words coming out of him, “I need you to fuck me, right now.”

What commences isn’t so much fucking, the rough handling John craves, but making love. The tenderness and romance John needs. When he feels Greg shift to reach the lube on the bedside table, there’s a part of him that wants to stop him. A part that wants Greg to just thrust in, rip him apart, give him an excruciating pain he’ll remember for days. As long as he has that pain, he’ll have Greg, the memory of who gave it to him. He wants Greg to own him, brand him, before he finds out about his transgressions and sends him away.

That savagery is so against Greg’s nature, he’s a fool for thinking his loving boyfriend capable of it. Greg pushes their lips together softly as he trails a hand tauntingly across sensitive pectorals and John’s softening stomach. He skirts around John’s flushed cock and scratches along his inner thigh.

The brush of a cold, slick digit against the delicate skin of his entrance sends a thrill up his spine. Greg deepens their kiss until John’s entire world is the taste of tobacco and coffee before pushing the long finger in. He massages John’s inner walls slowly, running over everywhere but the swollen gland that drives John crazy. John gasps in deep lung-fulls of air when Greg breaks off to taste the salt on John’s neck and along his collarbone, leaving a small trail of light discolorations when he sucks a bit too hard on the flushed flesh. He runs the flat of his tongue over a pert nipple as he pushes in another finger into John’s tight passage and John arches off the bed at the stimulation.

There’s not much foreplay or teasing, it’s been too long since they were last together and Greg would go crazy if he can’t have the feast in front of him. John can’t believe the gentleness of his touch and it’s one of his favorite aspect of the grey-haired officer. His job is horrible, his world is dark, and yet he’s still so compassionate. John’s a soldier, strong and brave, and Greg never belittles him or underestimates him but still he treats him as a precious, fragile thing. Like John is his most valuable possessions. If anyone else were to treat John Watson this way, he’d be irate and quick to prove his durability, but with Greg it’s different.

It’s not a power play by Greg, not a way to dominate John, a way for him to prove his strength. With Sherlock it’s a game with strategy and wit but with Greg it’s a journey. They’re on completely even footing. John doesn’t have to give his trust over to him in the same way because they’re on equal footing.

Even now, splayed out beneath the older man, hands resting up by his ears, fists gathering the duvet in a vice, they’re equals. The strong fingers in his arse are scissoring at an even pace that betrays the urgency John feels. He doesn’t remember when he started  thrusting his hips back desperately but he lets out a low moan when Greg withdraws. He wonders for a moment, what he must look like, debauched and writhing on the warm bed.  Judging by Greg’s hooded eyes and heaving chest he must look pretty fuckable and he wraps his legs around his waist to pull him in close, the bulging head of his cock brushing John’s sensitive hole.

Greg grabs ahold of himself to guide himself into John. “Jesus-“ He almost forgets to breath as he’s gripped by the hot velvet passage. He stills, letting John adjust to avoid any unnecessary discomfort. It’s been so long since he’s had John this way, since they’ve fallen into bed together at all, that Greg wonders why. There’s a worry, in the back of his mind, that it’ll be over too soon so he takes a moment and collects himself only setting a pace when John starts squirming and gasping underneath him.

It’s too slow for John and Greg is just gently pressing by prostate, enough to make the pleasure curl his toes but not overwhelm him. It’s deliberate, because Greg is nothing if not an attentive lover, to make this last longer. Greg is panting, hot and moist against John’s ear and he hears his name mixed with curses slip out occasionally. John’s rocking against those tan hips and making embarrassingly high pitched keening noises as the pressure in his groin builds.

“Fuck….John, John…”

John wants to say something but he’s gotten so frustratingly close if he could just get his hands on himself- Like Greg can read his mind he releases John’s wrist and starts working his dick as he increases his rhythm to a near violent pace. It’s like a damn has broken and John has to use his newly freed hand to push on the headboard to keep from being thrown up the bed and headfirst into the cheap wood. It’s a passion he’s missed from Greg since work has overloaded them both. The honeymoon of their relationship ending abruptly with the return of a curly haired devil of a detective-

John reaches up and tangles his fingers into the greying hair, pulling Greg into a breathless kiss. He forgets to breathe and makes a dying sound as his orgasm slams into him. Distantly, he’s sorry for the scratches that are going to be bright red against Greg’s olive skin. As his blood cools and his muscles relax he can feel Greg lax and warm against him. He must have come when John did and he’s sorry he missed it.

There’s a dull ache on his neck that intensifies into a stinging sensation as Greg pulls away.

“You…bit me” John is shocked at the rough treatment. Visible bites and marks is just so unlike Greg, not since the first few weeks of their relationship when everything was so new and unsure. When the loneliness had settled and grief had faded, they realized they didn’t need the juvenile possessiveness. What they had wasn’t thrown together in the wake of Sherlock Holmes.

Greg gives a bashful chuckle and looks down apologetically before dropping a tender peck to the abused spot. “Sorry.” Although it was perfectly clear he wasn’t. Greg pulls out slowly from John, who shudders at the sudden cold. He reaches over to the tissues and wipes meticulously at John’s stomach and thighs. Spending just a moment too long appreciating the filthy image of his semen dripping sluggishly from John’s pink swollen hole.

“I’ll probably need another shower soon” John says temptingly, pulling himself up. “Maybe a warm bath..?.”

Greg’s smile nearly blinds the doctor, “That, my love, is an adventure I’d love to join you in.” John smiles back at him, just as fondly, maybe more, because it all seems so perfect.

Sherlock was like a passing cloud in summer, offering temporary relief from the sun and heat but Greg is the breeze, the warm grass, the blue sky. He’s the sun so warm after a cold winter and mushy spring. Things with Sherlock, he can’t let them change anything. He doesn’t want anything else. When he gets up, carefully, and gives his partner a deep but chaste kiss.

“I’ll go start the water then.” And Greg enjoys the view as John struts into the loo, naked and flushed.

There’s a moment like a movie, when things are just lovely and Greg wishes he could thank God himself for the beauty of his life and his amazing partner. He’s not much for poetry but he swears the angels have given him more than he’s worth, after the stress of his job, the pain of his divorce and the guilt of sending Holmes to his death. And like a movie, it has to end. The credits are rolling and he has to deal with the real world: marked and muddled like the spot high on John’s shoulder. An ugly purple red bruise, an obvious bite mark. It’s not one he’s left, and despite the regular insults he receives on behalf of the world’s only consulting detective he can determine the perpetrator from a single glance: Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is slowly turning into a multichaptered fic oops
> 
> In the name of this fic I slept with a guy named Greg. For research of course.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't decided if I want to continue this or if I'll just leave it here as a one shot. 
> 
> It'll depend on the response it gets, I guess.
> 
> I was just really in the mood for cock-sucking.....er, writing it that is.


End file.
